


When in Rome

by universe



Category: Leverage
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Drinking, Episode Tag, F/M, Fingerfucking, Floor Sex, Post Finale, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universe/pseuds/universe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You're a bad influence.</i> Some things never change. (Spoilers for <i>San Lorenzo Job</i>!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When in Rome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nextgreatadventure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextgreatadventure/gifts).



“You’re a bad influence,” she swats the flower against his chest. And yet, she follows him (more than) willingly. Some things never change.

 

The bar they end up in (by necessity, not by choice—images of her are _everywhere_ now) is dark, a little shabby, but—most importantly—almost empty. And the few customers sitting at the counter aren’t the type to ask questions or mingle in other people’s business, that much is clear. Sophie still keeps her face hidden as much as possible, and slips into the nearest booth while Nate gets them drinks.

When he comes back, she studies him sharply, as if trying to analyse him, even though she should know better by now. And it’s not that she doesn’t, it’s not that she still expects him to give in, to make room for her, to allow her the upper hand. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t still _hope_ , though. (Miracles happen, they’d just taken down _Damian Moreau_. But she’s been around Nate long enough to be able to differentiate between genuine hope and silly naiveté.)

“So, friends, huh?” he interrupts her thoughts with a knowing smirk.

“Friends,” she repeats, her voice softer, somehow, more fragile.

She _wants_ them to be. She hadn’t been lying, earlier, when she’d said that what they have now is real, that what they had before wasn’t. Before, there were paintings, different sides, and European cities. And, maybe even more importantly, there was Maggie. Maggie whom she knows Nate loved more than anything, except for his son. And that hadn’t changed for a long time, not even after little Sammy’s death. Maybe it still hasn’t, she thinks, but things are different now. They’re not just a team, they’re a family. No matter how much he drinks, no matter how grumpy Eliot gets, or how weirdly Parker behaves. No matter which name she uses.

And yet, his face says something else, something _more_ , but she’s been wrong about him so many times that she no longer dares assume anything when it comes to his feelings. She almost asks him to define what _he_ thinks they are, but she doesn’t, because his reply wouldn’t—could never—be what she wants to hear. (She can see the scene play out in her mind; a nervous chuckle paired with a slight blush, his fingers tightening around the glass, eyes to the floor, and back up to hers, because when has he ever backed down from a challenge? And then he’d shrug his shoulders, and her heart would break just a little more.)

Instead, she sips her drink, slowly, deliberately, her eyes never leaving his.

“Why is nothing ever easy with you, Nate? Hmm? Why does everything have to be a struggle?”

“If you wanted easy, you wouldn’t be here.”

Here, in this bar, this city. In his life. In her own. The mere idea makes her ache with emptiness. And if she’s entirely, brutally honest, fighting with him has always been part of what made things interesting between them, part of what kept her coming back. The thought should be worrying, but it’s actually more comforting than anything else. If anything, it’s a lifeline she can cling to, the only one she still has left.

She looks at him, down to the glass of scotch in his hand, and back up to him. (Nate and alcohol. Always inseparable in her mind, since the darker days; since they’d met, even. But that was back then. It doesn’t matter who they were before they started helping people. It doesn’t even matter who they were before this con.) She looks at her hands. The people around them. There’s something different about this moment, something that sets it apart from everything else she’s ever experienced, everything else she’s ever felt around him.

He empties his glass quickly, and another one before she even finishes her first. But that’s not what surprises her. It’s the _way_ he drinks it, no longer just tossing it back to get that feeling of numbness he’s been craving ever since his life fell apart. Instead, and despite his speed, he savours it, lets it splash on his tongue. (Maybe his burdens have been lifted a little as well.)

“So… Now that Moreau’s gone, you no longer have to worry about going back to prison. And no more of your little Italian friend breathing down our necks…” (She tries to hide the smugness in her voice, she really does, but the way his eyebrows twitch slightly tells her he probably isn’t buying her act.) “How does it feel, being free?”

“I’d assume you know more about that than anyone else.”

And that’s Nathan Ford for you, never giving answers to questions you’ve asked, and still managing to shake your confidence with a single line.

“I’m just glad he can’t hurt anyone anymore,” he adds. It’s not the first honest admission she’s heard from him in these past few weeks, but it still startles her a little each time.

“Me too,” she says, and watches him refill their glasses. And she _is_ glad, more than that. Moreau won’t ever hurt anybody again, especially not Eliot or Parker or Hardison or anyone else she now cares about more than she should.

“What about you, _Rebecca_? Dead twice in less than two years? That’s pretty impressive, even for you.”

She laughs, because he’s right, and because she can, now.

“It was a good con, Nate.”

He nods in approval, still more than a little surprised they actually made it out of the whole thing alive. Mostly thanks to Sophie’s prompt improvisation, of course. (That’s one of the things he loves about her, the way she’s so quick on her feet.)

“Anyway, they’re just roles.” _Now_ they are, but that’s what she doesn’t say. Doesn’t have to around him.

It makes him falter, the tumbler halfway to his lips, and she sees the second of confusion in his eyes, but then it’s gone again, and he takes a long sip, his face softer than before.

They’re both getting tipsy, he can feel his vision start to blur a little around the edges, and somehow, dragging his eyes away from her is even harder than usual. And she’s giggling more than she normally does, and for a few minutes, he thinks he might have found her tell, but then she sobers up again, and slides closer to him in the seat.

Later, much later, the four-and-a-half and seven glasses kind of later, she’s smiling at him in a way she doesn’t do nearly often enough, and a strand has fallen out of her carefully pinned-up hair (the odd feather hat long since discarded onto the table). He’s about to lean forward to wipe it out of her face carefully, lovingly, his hand already halfway there, when the atmosphere unexpectedly changes.

“Nate!” she gasps, suddenly much more alert, and shrinking into the corner of the booth, “it’s one of the guards from the Palace!”

He doesn’t bother to turn around to double-check, if anyone can remember faces as well as he can, it’s her.

“Has he seen you?”

She shakes her head slowly, face hidden behind her long hair, but eyes glued to the man currently ordering a drink. It had been a mistake, they shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have risked being discovered. But Nate doesn’t let himself dwell on that now, not when he can do something about it.

“What is he getting?”

“A beer,” she replies, her eyes betraying the calm in her voice.

“That means he’s going to stay a while. Let’s wait and see if he sits down.”

Sophie nods, but her shoulders remain tense. After what feels like an hour, she slowly lets out the breath she’s been holding.

“Okay, he’s gone,” she slurs, “to the back, I think. One of the booths behind us.”

“Let’s go,” he says, and helps her up, steadies her until he’s sure she can stand on her own two feet. (He doesn’t ask her if she’s okay; they’re both adults, and usually, they both know what they’re doing. Sophie more than him, at least.) As it is custom in bars such at this one, he had to pay for the drinks straight away, and doesn’t need to bother with that now, but can instead focus on getting her out of there without anyone seeing.

Of course, and how could it have been any different, another guard comes in before they make it to the door, and Sophie reacts immediately, stumbling forward, her hair shielding her eyes again, relying on Nate to keep her from falling.

“Excuse me,” he picks up on her plan, “my wife is a little drunk.”

(Later, he won’t really be able to say if he’d done something to make his voice sound tipsy, too, or if he really had been that drunk.)

If the guard was interested in them before, he certainly isn’t any longer when he hears the heavy American accent in Nate’s voice. He turns away and joins his friend in the booth, and Sophie lets out another quiet sigh.

“That was close,” he rasps into her ear and pretends to steady her still, all but carrying her out of the bar.

Once outside, she promptly regains the equilibrium she had never really lost, although she still felt the alcohol drumming through her veins, making her a little lightheaded. Nate takes that as an excuse to keep her fingers laced with his as they hurry towards their hotel two blocks away, bumping into each other several times along the way.

Nobody else sees them, and they’re both grateful to find the hotel elevator empty as well. She lets him push the button—34th floor—, and leans against the railing to his right. There’s a mirror in there, which means she can still make out the frown on his face even when he’s turned away from her.

“S’ok,” she slurs, “we’re safe now.”

They aren’t really, not yet, they won’t be until they’re in the rooms with the doors locked, and he knows that, the frown softening, but still visible.

“Nate, _relax_.”

He turns towards her quickly, almost _too_ quickly, his head spinning a little now, too, and growls, “Not yet.”

It comes as a surprise to him, seeing her this careless, she’s never really done that before, not even when she was tipsy. It must have gone to her head, he thinks, the alcohol, the victory, all of it. He makes the decision quickly, before they even reach the floor their rooms are on.

“You’re staying in my room tonight.”

The grin on her face is worrying, but he’s pretty sure he can take whatever she decides to throw at him, as long as she’s safe. She opens her mouth, but he cuts her off, “Don’t argue.”

To his surprise, she actually does as he asks, but the grin is still there. They ride the rest of the way in silence, until she suddenly moves closer to him, one of her high-heeled shoes in front of the other, effectively trapping him against the wall of the elevator.

“Soph, wha—”

“Shhh,” she puts a finger on his lips, and _looks_ at him, from those dark, dark eyes that have been haunting him for thirteen years. It has exactly the effect that she had expected; he is stunned into silence. She moves in slowly, giving him ample time to read her intention, but before she gets anywhere remotely near interesting territory, the elevator slides to a stop, and she almost crashes into him, only held up by his hands around her waist, suddenly. And now _he_ is looking at _her_ , with a little smug smile on his face that she really can’t stand, so she turns towards the opening door, and leads the way into his room.

She doesn’t make it there.

Halfway down the long corridor, she starts staggering slightly, and Nate’s right behind her, making sure she doesn’t slip.

“Careful, there.”

Sophie must have noticed how much she’d really had to drink, accepting the arm he offers her without hesitation. Sophie Devereaux, voluntarily relinquishing control—that was a first. But he doesn’t say anything, not now.

They come to a shaky halt in front of his room, and it takes him a while to fumble the key card from one of his pockets. The fact that she’s still clinging to his arm doesn’t really help, either, but the alternative is to risk her falling down, and he could really do without that tonight. The card doesn’t fit into the slot at the door, and suddenly, it’s on the floor, and before he has a chance to bend down, she’s already after it, some of her reflexes still surprisingly fast. She holds it out to him, but when he tries to take it with a grateful smile, doesn’t let go. Instead, she’s piercing him again with her eyes, the small point of contact between their two fingers on the key now blazing hot. He’s struck with the sudden urge to push her up against the wall. This, he knows how to deal with, so he closes his eyes, counts quickly to five, and takes the card from her.

His hands are no longer shaking, and the door finally swings open. Sophie walks in first, and he can’t help but stare after her as she strides out of his line of sight.

He finds her in front of the mini-bar, already two shots of Whiskey into whatever it is she’s planning. Not that he minds, of course, taking a glass of his own to catch up.

For the next half hour, they don’t really talk, aside from the odd “refill?” and “thank you” they exchange. No, it’s all said through glances now, and little touches—his hand on her shoulder, her fingers on his shirt—, and the alcohol helps with the rest. They don’t drink as much as they could, but Nate still feels more tipsy than he has in a long time.

That is when he realises he’s still wearing his shoes, and the sight makes him laugh, for whatever reason, and when Sophie doesn’t join in, he looks at her oddly, mumbling something about taking them off now.

And so he does, or try to, at least, leaning down next to the door. But somehow, the shoe laces just don’t want to cooperate, and he starts laughing again. One shoe off, he holds it up in triumph, so engrossed in the task that he doesn’t even notice Sophie get up from the chair.

Finally standing in only his socks, he turns around and jumps, clearly not having expected her to stand right behind him.

“Dammit, _Sophie_ , you almost gave me a heart atta—”

All of a sudden, her lips are on his.

It’s not their first kiss, nor their second. It’s not even their third. No, this is number four. (One had been chaste, nothing but a brush of lips on lips after the first con they’d ever run together (Dubai, 2004), the merest contact until she’d pulled away with a smile on her face that left him wondering for months afterwards. Number two had been just as clandestine, but nowhere near as short or harmless. No, two had involved a back alley, a very tight black dress, and a rolling French accent that had driven him so insane he’d finally snapped and all but dragged her out of a building. As for the third one… Well, she could have done without Sterling and half of LA’s FBI contingent watching, and without the gunshot wound in his side, for that matter. But all that is long behind them now, and whenever she does allow herself to think about that moment, she only recalls his body close to hers, her hands on his chest and face, the feel of his mouth on her own after so many years of waiting, the way he’d tried to move back in after she’d pulled away, wanting more and more of her.)

And now here they are, four kisses into their (complicated, dysfunctional) relationship, and she vows on making this one last. And if his hands, tight on her hips, and his little moans are any indication, he feels the same way.

The kiss, their fourth, quickly trails off into a fifth and a sixth, and it’s somewhere around that point that she loses count. (Just for the record, and because they’ll fight about this later, _he_ lost count the second their mouths first met.)

After who knows how many kisses, her hands wind around his neck as his arms cross over her back, and they pull each other closer closer _closer_ , until there’s no space between them at all. It’s the desperation that gets to him, the way she clutches at every part of him that she can reach, and the way he does the same to her, too.

Her fingers dig too deep into his shoulder, but he barely notices, hardly even realises he’ll have bruises in the morning. The morning no longer matters; all that does is this moment now.

Somehow, Sophie ends up with her back against the wall, and with Nate’s body pushing her into it almost painfully hard. She bucks against him, trying to get him to move, but his brain is almost entirely shut off now, more so than it has been in years.

He lets one of his hands trail down her body as far as it will go without him having to lean further down, and then back up an inch or two, until he reaches her knee. He draws up her leg, and she lets him, wrapping it around his waist. He wants to do the same thing to her other leg, but somehow, the logistics of it elude him. She stumbles a little when he tries, but distracts him with another mind-blowing kiss.

It’s not the end of his plan, though, and when they come up for air, he hooks one hand around her, putting it low on her back, and gives the whole thing another go—again without much success.

“We’re far too drunk for the wall,” she slurs then, and right now, he thinks it’s the smartest thing she’s ever said.

They don’t make it to the bed.

That is not to say they don’t try, because Nate extracts himself slightly from the limbs locked around his body, even helps Sophie stand for a moment, but then, she falls against him, and his legs are a bit wobbly, too, so they go down.

She lands on him with a quiet “Ooof,” and it would be funny if he wasn’t so simultaneously drunk and very turned on. She doesn’t laugh either, so he gets right back to it, pulling her head down for another kiss.

Somehow—and neither of them will later remember how—he manages to take off most of his clothes, but his brain is too addled to work out the clasps on her dress, so instead he just pushes it up. She doesn’t complain, and he figures it’s alright with her when he lets his hands wander freely.

It doesn’t take long until she feels it’s her turn to be in control, pushing him to lie flatly on the dark carpet, his hands above his head while she takes the lead, simply pulling her underwear aside in a swift move he barely catches.

“ _Sophie_ ,” she rises above him and sinks down. When he moans her name silently, worshipfully, she knows it’s the only one she’ll ever use around him.

Not one to waste valuable time, she starts moving immediately, slowly at first, then picking up speed, and it’s all he can do to hold on and groan once in a while. He’s surprisingly ready, considering how much he’s had to drink, but for all accounts and purposes, they’re both far less drunk than they were just a short while ago.

That is the moment when he realises just who it is he’s sleeping with. (He’ll blame that on the alcohol, later, although he’ll never tell her about this, anyway.) Sophie, the woman he’s loved for as long as he can remember now, since they started helping people, since before that, since way before it was even allowed. The woman who is, in a weird, screwed up way, the mother of the family they’ve made. The woman who, despite it all, is still the biggest mystery of all to him.

“Tell me your real name,” his voice almost breaks.

She bites her lip and looks at him, stops moving for a full minute and just _looks_.

“No.”

The protest dies in his throat when she leans down to whisper in his ear.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow, if you really want to know. Tonight, I’m Sophie. I want to be Sophie.”

She’s not sure he understands, his eyes large and looking at her in a way that screams doubt, but he nods, and his fingers tightening around her body spur her back into motion. One of his hands finds its way between them, and she gasps, but the sound gets lost against his lips.

Nate is a torrent of conflicting feelings inside her, the very definition of a maelstrom, and if she’s not careful, she’ll lose herself in him completely with the way his fingers are pulling and his eyes are pushing, his mouth trying to swallow her, and drink her down. (She thinks it might not be the worst idea she’s had.)

From there onwards, it’s only a matter of minutes until she’s reduced to moans and “God!” and his name, her finger nails leaving marks in his skin as her back finally bends in pleasure. When she comes back to herself, it’s his turn to arch into her, her own name spilling from his lips like a prayer.

She has never seen him look so vulnerable as he does at this very moment, and it all comes rushing back to her, an avalanche of memories and feelings: Parker and Hardison jumping from a bridge, Eliot and whatever it was he’d done for Moreau, Nate full-out trusting the Italian. They could have _died_ , and for a few heartbeats, something lodges in her throat, something dark that has the potential to become a full-blown sob, but then Nate’s eyes lock on hers again, and it’s that connection that anchors her in this open sea of emotion.

The air feels hot around them at first, but as their bodies slowly cool, she starts to shiver. They’re really getting a little too old for the floor, he thinks, and—reluctantly—gets up, extends his hand, and helps her over to the bed.

Trying to swallow, Nate notices how dry his throat is, but once he’s sat down, he can’t quite make his legs function anymore, so he turns to the nearest possible option, no matter how bad of an idea it might be.

There’s only one glass tumbler on the bed stand next to the bottle of amber liquid, so he pours a liberal amount and, surprisingly, hands it to her first. She takes a long sip, the alcohol burning her throat pleasantly. It doesn’t take long for it to go to her head, she hasn’t eaten anything in hours, and she can already feel her skin tingling. She wants him again.

She’s almost a little disappointed when he doesn’t let her touch him, but instead makes her lie back on the golden sheets and undresses her completely. If he were ten years younger, or at least sober, this wouldn’t be a problem at all, but the way things are, his hands and mouth will have to be enough. Not that she’s complaining, of course.

Sophie writhes under him, bucking a little when he kisses her. Somewhere in the process, he knocks one of the cushions from the bed, but doesn’t give it a second thought. She shakes when he runs his hands down her sides slowly, his nose buried in her hair, breathing her in.

There’s no more teasing now, they’re both physically and emotionally exhausted from the con, but Nate wants to see her face soften with fulfilled desire once more.

He slips over and through, in and out, his eyes staring up at her, and for a moment, his fingers pressing into her are _too_ real, too much, but then he curls and flicks and she comes so hard she stops thinking altogether.

Before she knows it, he has moved her further up on the bed and has neatly spread the blankets and bed sheets over them. Suddenly, it occurs to her he’s still wearing his undershirt, and maybe she’s still a little tipsy or maybe the events of the day are finally taking its toll, but she’s laughing at him then, and even though he probably doesn’t know the reason behind it, he joins in, curling up next to her, his arm possessively draped over her hip.

Tomorrow, they’ll be hung over, and they’ll probably be at a loss about how exactly they got here, but for now, they fall asleep, not an inch of space between them.

  
  
**UH-OH**  



End file.
